


Miss Unionville 1942

by tacky_tramp



Category: Philadelphia Story (1940)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:26:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacky_tramp/pseuds/tacky_tramp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike comes to visit Tracy after her second divorce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss Unionville 1942

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweet775](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet775/gifts).



As described, the Unionville cottage was set on a gently sloped hill amid the trees, whose November reds and golds seemed muted in the wet and overcast afternoon. He'd asked the taxi to drop him at the end of the driveway. This left him a long walk during which he could appreciate the famed view. The view was fine, but he could have done without the muddy hike. He took an extra moment to scrape his shoes before straightening his hat and ringing the bell.

It hadn't taken much investigating to find out that Mrs. Tracy Lord Haven, lately divorced a second time, was not at the Lord estate with her family. Instead, she'd retreated to the hunting cottage at the edge of the woods, and was taking no visitors.

As he was fussing with a stubborn bit of mud on his pant leg, the door opened. "Well. Mr. Macaulay Connor." The voice was arch and unmistakable. He looked up, and there she stood tall and graceful in the doorway. Two years had passed; she was unchanged and completely different at the same time, with her fiery hair brushed back from her temples and her eyes clear and strong and challenging. "I guess you're not here on assignment."

"No, Miss Lord," he replied, straightening up. "As it turns out, my departure from the world of disreputable journalism was binding and final."

She smiled. "Then I can invite you in instead of calling the police." She stepped aside so he could enter. "Don't worry about the mud," she said over her shoulder as she led him into a sitting room -- the only one, probably, judging from the modest size of the house. "The floor of this old place has certainly seen worse. Fox hunting isn't a clean business, that's for certain, and I expect the fox would agree."

It was much less fussy than the Lord estate, the furniture aging, the paneled walls mostly bare except for a few botanical sketches, a fire banked low in the corner. He thought of Tracy offering him this place like some Venetian noblewoman and tried to imagine himself here with a typewriter and no bills to pay. She was taking off her cardigan, pouring him a drink, telling him he looked fine, just fine, and when she handed him the glass, he made sure their fingers didn't touch.

"I had a letter from Liz a few months ago," she was saying. "She thinks that husband of hers won't be called up, on account of the baby. She also mentioned your book, that it's selling better than the last one."

He inclined his head modestly. "That's not saying much." He hesitated, then said, "Did you get the copy I sent you?"

"Yes, and thank you. I ... I haven't had time to read it yet, I'm afraid."

He took a belt of the whiskey. "I expect you've been busy with all the ... arrangements."

She frowned a perfect little moue of disapproval. "Mike, don't act like you're talking about a funeral, for God's sake. Why, I think it's a shame we don't celebrate divorces the way we celebrate weddings. A fancy dress, a joyful orchestra, and a great big cake -- with a file baked inside. The reporters and photographers could come get their fill, and wouldn't it look pretty on the cover of Spy magazine."

"Tracy," he said softly.

"Oh, give me a cigarette already." He did, and lit it with a match from his pocket. She watched the little flame, and watched his hand as he shook it out. Her gaze slipped up his arm and over his shoulder until it reached his eyes. "Thank you," she said. "I am quite thoroughly indebted."

He perched on the edge of the worn sofa. "You can pay me back by telling me how you're doing. Honestly."

She smoked for a minute, staring out the window. The view was of the rain-swollen brook and autumn trees, the lake somewhere out beyond or maybe around the other side of the house. He didn't think she was really seeing any of it just then.

When she spoke, her tone was mild and pensive. "You'd think it would be the same as the last time. Same Dexter, same me, same 'irreconcilable differences.' But I'm not the same me, and he's not the same him, and it still didn't work. We both changed. Just not the right way." She laughed a little, small and without mirth. "The worst part is, I'm not angry. Last time, I was so steaming mad, I couldn't cry. The tears would dry up before they came. This time --" She stopped and turned away.

Mike put down his glass and went to her, but caught himself before his hands reached her shoulders. Her sweater lay beside her, and her blouse was thin, and though he wanted to comfort her he wasn't sure he was ready to feel her again. He could still remember her planes and angles under his palms. He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Did he start drinking again? Did he ...?"

She turned to him, smiling faintly. "No. No drunkenness and cruelty this time. You remember how Dexter used to tell people that we grew up together? That was our little joke. We weren't grown up at all. Now we are, and it turns out we're not in love." She wiped at her face with the back of a hand. "I'm not sure if that's more or less appalling than the stories in the paper."

"I'm just glad you're all right," Mike said, trying to sound cheery.

She held her cigarette stiffly, her eyes back on the window. "Is that why you came, then? To check for black eyes?"

He took a step towards her, and then another. "No, that's not why." He was standing just behind her and could smell her hair. Her arms were trembling ever so slightly. He allowed himself just this -- to reach out and touch her elbow. And with a sigh, she leaned back into him.

"Mike," she said lowly, "when I said I hadn't read your book yet -- that was a lie. I read it the very day the package arrived. As soon as I'd finished it, I read it again. And it's good, Mike, it's awfully good ... but that's not why I couldn't put it down. Do you understand?" She turned around lifted her face until it was just inches from his. "And now you're here, and the last thing I want to talk about is the past. I've made such a mess of it again and again. Sometimes I think the last time I was on the right track was Miss Pommery 1926." She looked up at him expectantly.

They stood there like that for a moment, her hands pressed against his chest, his hands on her arms, holding her close and keeping her away at the same time. Another moment passed. She whispered, "Isn't this the part where you kiss me?"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Tracy," he said, "I'm not going to kiss you. Not today, anyway. Maybe not tomorrow, either. I'm not here for Miss Pommery 1926. I'm here for you. You've been through a hell of a lot these last few months. And as I recall, rash decisions don't generally work out well for either of us."

She studied him then, taking in the new lines on his face and the serious set of his mouth. "You've changed, too," she murmured.

He smiled. "Remains to be seen if it's the right way." He brushed his fingers over her cheek. "We've got plenty of time to figure that out."


End file.
